


Pharma Drabble Dump

by spaceliquid



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alien Cultural Differences, Basically the pairings can serve as warnings, Creepy child!Pharma, Incest, Insanity, M/M, Marking, Mildly Dubious Consent, Pharma being creepy, Scars, Tarn being himself
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-01-13 18:52:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1237261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceliquid/pseuds/spaceliquid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles starring Pharma, most of them prompted by hiimdangreen. Probably will update from time to time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tarn/Pharma, scars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hiimdangreen (hansu)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hansu/gifts).



> For the prompt: Tarn/Pharma and Tarn's oh so interesting hidden face.

“So,” Pharma’s finger slides gently along the gash of an old scar, “What left this?”

“Autobot sword,” Tarn smiles and closes his lips around Pharma’s thumb, flicking his glossa over its tip.

“Mmmm,” Pharma revs his engine approvingly – either of Tarn’s ministrations or of the unknown Autobot’s deed (possibly both). “And this?” Now his index finger touches the scar that crosses Tarn’s brow.

“Lord Megatron’s claw, during a training spar,” Tarn opens his mouth to speak, but then catches Pharma’s retreating thumb with his dentae and bites, gently.

Pharma’s cooling fans kick on.

He leans down, lying sprawled on top of Tarn, a perfect picture of luxurious laziness, playful smile on his lips and spark of madness in his optics.

“Tsk-tsk-tsk,” he shakes his head, “everybody gets to leave a mark on your face. Hey, what do you think? Should I follow my fellow Autobot’s example?”

In a blink of an optic a scalpel appears in his free hand, acute blade stopping right in front of Tarn’s unmasked face. The Decepticon doesn’t even flinch; instead, he lets go of Pharma’s thumb and smiles.

“I think you shouldn’t follow anyone’s example, Pharma”.

Tarn continues to smile, watching the fleeting changes of expression on Pharma’s face, enjoying it as if it was a marvelous work of art. And when Pharma smiles back at him, it looks just as vicious.

“You’re right,” he says. “You’re right. My mark will be special; my mark will be unrivaled”.

His hand with the scalpel moves down, lower and lower, until the cold metal of the blade meets blazing hot metal of an interface panel.

“Open,” Pharma mutters against Tarn’s scarred lips; it probably was intended to sound like an order, but instead there is barely restrained passion and yearning.

They kiss as the panel slides aside.


	2. Ratchet/Pharma, Incest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: Ratchet and Pharma, not necessarily a pairing just the two of them. maybe Pharma as a kid?
> 
> I usually don't write sparklings and human-like reproduction, but I couldn't pass the chance to write creepy incest.

The kid is odd.

Ratchet notices this, of course, but Pharma’s oddities mostly make Ratchet proud – and how can he not be proud, when his sparkling is so bright, so talented, already promising to turn into a superb medic. There is some discomfort, for Ratchet knows that he may be neglecting his offspring – but really, he can’t just leave his patients, who flock to him and his “magic hands”. And sometimes, when he has some free kliks between operations, he checks on Pharma, and then comes a fleeting thought that the sparkling’s gaze is too intense, that his expression is somehow weird… But then another dying mech occupies his attention, and Ratchet gently pats his son’s head and runs off. After all, Pharma is an ideal child – quiet, serious, respectful; he never flies around squealing and breaking things, never pests Ratchet with stupid demands. Pharma watches Ratchet work attentively, or, when Ratchet has no time for him (he often doesn't), Pharma just sits in his room with a datapad.

So yes, Pharma may be odd, but this is the way of talent, it seems. Ratchet finds it endearing, seeing his child mimick him diligently, mixing various energon additives with almost comically solemn face, his little hands as careful as Ratchet’s own. Ratchet smiles at Pharma and praises him, but then he has to go away again – a street gang war filled his clinic with wounded mechs. Fortunately, one of the newcomers actually helps Ratchet with his work – a fine fellow, uneducated and rough around the edges, but very smart and eager to learn. Ratchet even begins teaching him a bit…

Sadly, the mech passes away soon. Toxic energon poisoning, Ratchet’s scanners say; the mech’s friends mentioned he used to be a Syk addict, poor fellow must’ve bought some cheap stuff. Foolish, foolish boy… Ratchet spends the night unable to recharge, plagued with the images of his almost-apprentice’s face; he doesn’t dare to move much, since Pharma is curled up in his arms – but when Ratchet looks down at his child, he sees that the sparkling is awake. Pharma’s optics glow softly in the dark, and somehow this glow – familiar and gentle blue – seems strangely eerie right now. But then Pharma blinks and smiles at Ratchet sleepily, his little engine purring, and Ratchet can’t help but smile back.

No matter what happens, at least he has Pharma.


	3. Tarn/Pharma, cultural differences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on hiimdangreen's idea that Tarn's mask might be a cultural thing with some ancient meaning, and opening your face to somebody would mean something akin to marriage.

To be frank, Pharma had to admit: most troubles he faced he brought upon himself. Take his _brilliant_ idea to associate with Tarn, for example.

And now this, caused by his own curiosity.

Pharma performed surgery on Tarn multiple times; he was intimately familiar with the DJD leader’s body, including his internal organs (and some other organs, but Pharma tried not to think about it). The only part of Tarn’s body that remained a mystery was his face.

Pharma knew there was a face behind that stupid mask, and lately he often caught himself wondering – how did Tarn actually look? The medic liked to imagine something unsightly, something worth hiding, a face fitting the monster it belonged to. But still, the curiosity remained… and one day it became unbearable.

Usually Pharma had to operate on Tarn under close scrutiny of one of his repulsive crewmates. Today it was the same as always, but when the operation was finished, Vos (it was his turn to stand vigil) screeched something unpleasant and left. In less than a minute Tarn was going to be awake; his vital signs already heightened, processor reboot in progress. Pharma had mere moments, so he moved to the mask’s clasps, his famous hands working swiftly. With a soft _click_ the mask came off.

Well now. It was… far less impressive than anything Pharma imagined. Tarn had a very ordinary face; nothing too appealing, but nothing hideous. Very forgettable, in fact, if it wasn’t for scars that covered every inch of it. Tarn’s lips were rather fine, though (and seriously, what was it with Phase Sixers and pretty lips?).

Tarn chose this very moment to come to his senses.

Of course, Pharma knew that he won’t have enough time to put the mask back on, and, to be honest, didn’t intend to. Some strange masochistic part of him, that crazy part that enjoyed provoking Tarn, insulting and defying him in order to learn how far would he go, what other ( _pleasantsweetdesirable_ ) torture he could invent for Pharma, - that part wanted to see how Tarn would react.

Tarn surprised him – again. The Phase Sixer looked at his mask in Pharma’s hand, then at Pharma himself, tilted his head a bit, and then said calmly:

“You do realize I took the Oath of Virtue?”

Pharma was cultured enough to understand what Tarn meant. And when he did, something in his spark went cold.

The Oath of Virtue. An antiquated, idiotic, long forgotten ritual, when a person swore to hide his face and Spark from the world until some important goal of his choosing was reached. Tarn’s goal being, undoubtedly, the establishment of galaxy-wide Decepticon Empire with Megatron as its ruler (something Pharma hoped would never come to pass).

Oh no. Oh no, no, no.

“It seems you’ll have to become my Bonded… Pharma,” Tarn smiled. It was one of the freakiest sights in Pharma’s life.

The mech who took the Oath of Virtue was supposed to hide his face from the world, the sole exception made for the one who was a part of him: his spark twin or a bonded mate.

“No!” This came out more high-pitched than Pharma intended.

“Otherwise I’ll have to kill you,” Tarn stated matter-of-factly. “And I’d prefer my medical care to stay in your good hands, Doctor.”

The bastard was clearly enjoying it!

Pharma opened his mouth to say “No” again, to protest… But somehow his throat constricted, the words dying before being born. Tarn didn’t even have to use his voice, fear doing his job for him. Pharma liked to play with Tarn, but he knew where the limits of his freedom lay; and Pharma didn’t want to die.

“Come on, Doctor. Am I really that bad?” The medic didn’t even notice when Tarn had moved; strong hands laid on his waist, pulling him closer, and that damned voice sounding right over his audial.

‘Yes’, Pharma wanted to say, but decided against it. He might have said something else, but all thoughts stopped in his head when Tarn kissed him.

Kissed him. For the first time in their whole warped perversion of a relationship.

It was Pharma’s first kiss in a long, long time.

This was why he stood there unmoving. This was why he opened his mouth and let himself be kissed, and then kissed back with just as much passion; this was why his fingers scraped at Tarn’s shoulders, leaving scratches on purple paint.

Or at least that’s what he told himself.


	4. Tarn/Pharma, cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No prompt this time, I just had this idea for ages and I felt the need to write it.

Cold.

It was so cold. The snow melted where it touched heated metal just after Pharma’s fall, and now it froze again, mixed with infected energon that oozed from his wounds. Ice covered his plating, got stuck in the joints, clogging them, and Pharma couldn’t feel his body anymore. The pain waned along with all other sensations, becoming dull and distant, - in his shattered cockpit, in his broken limbs, in the stubs where his hands used to be, - and his systems began to go offline one by one; vision grew blurry and failed, tactile sensors numbed under the ice, audio receptors registered nothing but the howl of blizzard that sounded too much like static, so much that Pharma couldn’t tell them apart anymore.

And his mind was thrashing about in its prison of a broken body, looking for an exit that wasn’t there, looking for something to hold on to and finding nothing. There was no escape; he was alone. He couldn’t move a finger _(but no, he didn’t have fingers anymore, no, no, not his hands, what is he going to do now, what is a medic without his hands?)_ , helpless, diseased, abandoned, his control slipping…

Fear. Fear was overwhelming him, pure primitive terror, until even his cold _(ha!)_ collected mind was not able to adhere to reason, until logic failed him along with the rest of his being, and Pharma’s cracked lips parted to let out a raspy wheeze:

“H-help…”

Oh, but whom could he call for help? Proud, rigorous Pharma; genius Pharma, perfect Pharma; who will come for you?

Not First Aid or Ambulon, not after what happened at Delphi… And Pharma had done so much for Ambulon’s sake, that ungrateful Decepticon washout. Not any of his patients, those are mostly dead now.

Pharma’s lips moved again, almost on their own, without his urging.

“Ratch…”

Icy breath of the wind froze the words in his vocalizer. No. Not Ratchet. He won’t come. He hates you, Pharma; the look of absolute _loathing_ in his optics was something Pharma wouldn’t forget. And he had done so much… His scheme was executed precisely, and wasn’t it something a great medic like Ratchet should appreciate? That traitor. That damned fraud…

_Ratchet won’t come._

Pharma’s optics flashed with the residue of his rage and his body’s warmth, and they _burned_. Ice that coated them melted, thin dribbles of water running down Pharma’s cheeks like a scornful parody of his masterfully designed virus. He was alone. Nobody wants you, Pharma. Nobody ever wanted, not Ratchet, who always walked past you, hurrying for a new heroic operation to perform, not anyone. The only company that welcomes you is that of criminals and murderers, of Decepticon filth.

Water was freezing on Pharma’s face and immediately washed away by new streams, snow falling on his blazing optics and melting, sparks flying from the near-white lenses as Pharma’s shoulders shook in ugly sobs that rattled his frame.

“H-help… Help me…”

The only one who wanted you. The only one you have left.

“Tarn… Help me!”

Humiliation, revulsion, forsaken dignity – all was forgotten in the turmoil of despair as Pharma lay there in the snow and cried.

“Help… Tarn! Help… me… Tarn! Taaaaaarn!!!”

He cried and cried until his vocalizer shorted out, until the frost dug its fingers inside his head and he couldn’t speak, couldn’t think any more. But as the last shards of his conscience faded he imagined that he felt strong arms wrapping around his frame and lifting him, familiar rumble of a large warbuild engine humming a tune that soothed him into oblivion.


End file.
